It's life Jim, But not as we know it
by Word-waterfall
Summary: Sam was starting to see in black and white.


**It's life, Jim, but not as we know it**

by WordWaterfall

He was starting to see in black and white. There were no such things as grey areas here; everything went in a category in his mind. He got up each morning, a resounding headache wrapping around his brain, the tingle of numbness around the tip of each of his fingers. That's all everything was now, an ache, _a nagging_ - almost nothing at all.

He'd like to forget about it, he'd like to think it was from not feeling for so long. After all this was what he wanted, wasn't it? To come back. Wasn't it? It wasn't supposed to be like _this_. He was meant to be happy. His fiance at his side, at home. Happy- but the harsh metal glare of modern life only stung him somewhere inside. Everything gleamed with a light that seemed artificial, and sometimes he would have to close his eyes.

His suit hung from his thin frame, no longer fitting like before. Logically, it was probably from all the months he spent in a deep sleep, but he knew it was because it wasn't right, these weren't his clothes. The suit, costing a ridiculous amount of money, made him look like a DCI- concealing Sam Tyler. He was no longer DCI Sam Tyler, just as the room he currently sat in wasn't his office, and the bed he slept in felt nothing like home. Home was lost, home was far away. _30 years away_. Buried under the new foundations of this .Ugly. city that surrounded him.

So much was lost to him, so much he remembered, replaced by something more _new_, but never better. Each conversation, each day was a drone of voices. He told people what to do; he answered questions like any good DCI. He'd always been a good actor, his mother had always said. His sad thoughts flittered to his mother, whos touch was sterile now. It felt nothing like when Annie touched him; he wondered that if he threw himself into a wall, if he would feel _anything_ at all? He wondered if people noticed, he wondered and his thoughts drifted off, detached from himself, so that the people didn't exist.

Maybe he was mad. Maybe the whole thing was some Sweeny-induced dream, but if it was- why was this world shifting away like sand through his fingers. Why did that world feel more real than his world? Sam Tyler had no place in his world anymore. He had a place there, in another world, moulded by time, and familiarity and acceptance. It was comfortable, and now it was as far gone as it could ever be.

Annie's words swam around his mind so frequently, that he had only become semi-conscious of her voice now.

_"Tell me what's hurting you Sam"- __  
_  
-sometimes he would feel a really real, burning pain across his cheek. That felt real.

"What do you think, Sam?" He blinked, and again. He became aware of many suited people either side of him, of the ball point pen he was clicking in his ear. "Sam?" _Sorry_, he tried to say, but no words left his mouth. He cleared his throat, but it didn't feel like it was part of him. "Sorry" he muttered. The man before him repeated his question, and Sam watched him blankly. The man's face swam in and out of focus, and he struggled to understand the garbled English that he could hear. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Sam, Your hand" Sam tilted his head, and looked down. He saw red, and everything came into focus, droplets of blood ran from his thumb, to the case files beneath it. His eyes went wide. He couldn't feel it, no **sting** as the skin broke, no **ache**, no **tingling** in the tips of his fingers. He couldn't feel anything. He groped at the table before him; he couldn't feel the cold metal of the modern decor. He stood up, pushing his chair back across the room. "I have to go" he muttered, not caring if anyone heard him.

He'd been on this roof before. In another time, he'd always remember it. He was sure he was mad.

_'We all feel like jumping sometimes, Sam. But we don't you and me. Because we're not cowards. '_

Sam laughed to himself; the breeze cooled his skin, an explosion of sensations across his skin. He knew he was close to something, close to feeling, close to home. He felt warm, contented. He smiled for the first time in weeks.

_What's that on your hand? Is that grit?_ **Feeling.**

_Sand. When I was running up here, I tripped and I fell against the fire bucket._ **Detail.**  
_  
__See, why would I think of something like that? Why would I put that kind of detail in it?_ **Because it. was. real.**

_You wouldn't._ He wouldn't, because It was real. It was as real as he was his heart beating ferociously under his skin, the goose pimples rising, and the blessed relief as he began to run. It was real, he was real. He could feel. He was going _home_. He jumped. He fell into a freefall, laughing the whole way.

He landed on his feet- back in the tunnel. Gun shots echoing around him.

"Help us, Sam!" Annie's shrill cry. _I will_, Annie,_ I promised_. He held the gun up in one hand and fired. He fired for her, for Gene, for Ray and for Chris. Because they were his friends. They were real, they were alive. _He was alive, and he was home. __  
_**  
****End**


End file.
